. . . and now insomnia. I seem to have entered some kind of hell-cycle: first, headaches; then, awake most of the night.
Maybe it's the weather . . . a strange dry wind, fire-danger warnings posted, but also high-surf warnings because Hurricane Teddy is far out in the Gulf of Maine spinning crazy rainless gales our way.
So I spent the night trying to defuse insomniac worry scenarios such as "FOOTNOTES! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT FOOTNOTES! DON'T FORGET FOOTNOTES!" Such a stupid waste of hours.
Anyway, there's daylight, and there's leftover lasagna for breakfast, so that's something. And I have a shiny washable kitchen in which to cook, and a new garden path to plan, and suddenly the editing project is advancing fairly quickly, and I should have a chance to sit down and read some Byron today, and maybe I'll submit the NPS manuscript someplace . . .
But writing time remains nonexistent. I just don't have any. I get up early, I try to get my paying-work done efficiently, but I have no private time and no private space. Literally, the moment Paul leaves for work, Tom comes home from work. If I have half an hour alone in the house, I'm lucky. Usually it's more like ten minutes.
I'm not complaining; honestly, I'm not complaining. We're healthy and employed and we enjoy each other's company. But it's hard to keep calling myself a poet when I'm not writing poems.